Chapter 43
Forty-Three
Marguerite was drifting in darkness. She caught snippets of the men’s conversation, unable to make sense of them, but clinging to the sound of Marcus’s voice like a lifeline.
When he carried her into this place, this safehouse, she glimpsed a darkened kitchen, narrow servants’ stairs, a dimly lit hallway.
Then this room with its single bed, set against the wall, and a table.
He set her down on the soft mattress, her head resting on his shoulder as he peeled her out of her jacket and cross belt, slipped off her shoes, and rolled down her muddy stockings.
Then he laid her back on the bed, adjusting a pillow under her as gently as if she were a child.
He spread a light blanket over her bare feet and legs.
She wasn’t sure whether she imagined his fingers brushing a strand of hair off her forehead, or the words, “not mine.”
A short time later, she was stirred by the sound of trunks or boxes being carried in and set down. Marcus’s voice instructing someone to leave the lantern lit so that if she woke to find herself in a strange place she wouldn’t be frightened, wouldn’t think she was still in prison.
Safe.
There was the scrape of a porcelain pitcher being lifted from the table, the splash of water in a basin. His voice again. ‘‘In case she wishes to wash.”
She imagined how the water would feel. Cool. Clean. Fresh.
Footsteps as they left the room. The click of the door closing behind them. Sweet silence.
She desperately wanted to wash, but every movement seemed an almost impossible effort. Even opening her eyes—her lashes felt as if they were hung with lead weights.
She’d barely slept in the prison, with its never-ending symphony of misery: The clang of steel doors, the curses of the guards, the moans of the dying and the prayers and wails of those waiting to die.
And yet, even as her body gloried in the feel of a soft mattress, her skin crawled with the sticky filth of the prison; her every breath filled her nostrils with its stink.
She knew, too, that if she allowed herself to sleep, the fears that were crouching on the edges of her consciousness would rush in upon her, like wolves outside a ring of fire.
The fear that even though she’d escaped the prison, she might still be caught. Dragged back.
What would happen when the guards began the roll call in a few hours? Would a search begin? Would they find her? Find the men who’d rescued her? Would others be blamed for her escape? Would the cart be fuller tomorrow because of her?
A whimper of pain escaped her, and she turned, feeling Marisol’s embroidered purse pressing against her hip. Reminding her of the way the woman’s smile had slipped as she’d been led away.
She would never forget the horrors she’d been through. But if she could shed her clothes, scrub her skin…maybe, just maybe, she could keep the nightmares at bay?
Forcing her eyelids open, she saw a table, a lantern set in the center, and within its wavering pool of light, a pitcher and basin, a matched set, white with a delicate tracery of gold leaves and roses.
Two steps and an arm’s length away if only she could just. Sit. Up. Stand. Her brain commanded, but her body resisted.
Where was Marisol’s body now? Had anyone claimed her? Or had she been dumped in a mass grave? Tossed into a pit like so much rubbish?
Marguerite closed her eyes, envisioning a tableau she’d never want to capture on canvas: blood-drained faces contorted in pain, tumbling down around a pile of headless bodies.
She began to shake. She’d spent so much effort convincing herself she wouldn’t die. Trying to figure out how to survive.
She wasn’t going back. She was going to live.
She fumbled with the buttons of the waistcoat.
Shrugged it off. Untied the stock. Pulled it free.
Untied the laces of the shirt. Pulled her arms free.
Dragged it over her head and shoved the shirt, waistcoat and stock off the bed.
Unlacing the trousers and small clothes took more effort, but she persisted, whimpers of frustration escaping her as she fumbled, pulled, pushed, and wriggled until she lay half naked and panting, her clothes in a tangled heap as far from the bed as she could manage.
The thump the breeches made, as they landed beside the pile, reminded her that Marisol’s embroidered purse and the unused bundle of drawing paper and graphite were still in the pockets.
She’d retrieve them later.
It took several exasperating attempts to undo the knots and wrappings of the fichu binding her breasts, but at last, the thing came undone.
Marguerite lay on her back for several long moments, gulping air and glorying at the ability to fully expand her rib cage.
As she gathered up the fichu, she caught the faint scent of the rosewater soap she’d borrowed from the now-dead vicomtesse. Gagging, she flung it away.
She picked at the knot of the ribbon holding her braid looped against her neck with fingers so clumsy it seemed a marvel they’d ever held a paint brush.
Like the fichu, it seemed to take forever to undo it.
But finally, finally, the weight of her plait tumbled down her back.
Swinging it forward, she raked at the strands, shaking them free.
She closed her eyes, head bent forward, surrounded by a curtain of hair, panting from her efforts. It was so tempting to lie back, surrender to exhaustion. But each inhalation brought with it the cloying prison stink.
Forcing her heavy lids open, she willed her eyes to focus. On the table, in a wavering circle of the lantern light, was the pitcher, the basin, and thank the gods, a folded cloth and a dish of soap.
Two steps away and an arm’s reach. She’d gotten her clothes off, her hair unbound and hell, she’d walked out of the Conciergerie. She could do this.
Her legs felt heavy, boneless as she swung first one, then the other off the mattress. Bracing her hands on it, Marguerite leaned forward and willed herself to stand.